


Uncertainty

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Song Fics [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Songfic, Uncertainty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:48:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: A chance snippet of song is stuck in John's head. The reimagining of a song from his childhood has new meaning for him, but he can't tell Sherlock what it means.





	Uncertainty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/gifts).



> Inspired by [How Will I Know](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4z2VdX8Z38I) the cover by Sam Smith of Whitney Houston's classic.  
> Crickette introduced me to the incredible Sam Smith, so this belongs to you, my dear. <3

“Your humming is distracting, John.”

“What? Oh, sorry,” John replied. He had to make a concerted effort not to resume a few seconds later – the smallest snippet of song this morning and it had been stuck in his head ever since.

“John!” Apparently he’d been doing it again.

Taking his mug back to the kitchen, John started the familiar motions of making tea, something he could do easily while trying to think of something to stop his brain endlessly looping that blasted song. It was Harry’s fault, he decided; she’d listened to the original hundreds of times in their shared bedroom growing up. It must be twenty years since he’d heard it, but the familiar melody grabbed him last week when it had been audible through the headphones of someone on the train. John had strained to hear it, finally realising what it was just as the young girl got off at the station before him.

When he made it home John had googled it, knowing it had sounded different to his memories, and he’d been right – there was a new version out. Someone called Sam Smith had covered it (he had a particularly high voice for a man, John thought). It was much slower than the tune he remembered, without the 80’s dance beat to push the tempo along. More of a yearning lament. Listening to it on his laptop with no chance of Sherlock overhearing him (Molly had called and he’d gone running, of course), John had shivered at the opening strains. It was haunting now, the closest he’d ever come to hearing a song that captured his emotion. The newer version was more direct; the lyrics were a question to the listener, instead of about a third party. It made it far more intimate and somehow more personal.

John had never spoken to anyone about Sherlock, the complex relationship they had, and the deeper one he craved. As he listened again and again, the lyrics sounded more and more like the articulation of his own hesitation. If he did somehow get up the courage to talk to Sherlock, how would he know for sure if Sherlock really loved him, regardless of his words? There must be something he could use as a marker, some tell Sherlock had that tipped him off as a liar – or not. All John knew was that his heart stumbled whenever he saw Sherlock after even the briefest of absences, as though realising the depth of his affection anew each time. For all his bravado and bluster, John’s experience with people he already cared for was minimal. He was great at asking out a girl on a bus, or in a bar, or walking down the street; talking to someone he knew but was falling for, that was a different situation. And Sherlock – well that was a whole different thing altogether.

“You’re doing it again.” Sherlock’s voice came from behind John, making him start.

“Bloody – yes, I am. It’s a song that’s stuck in my head. I’ll try to get rid of it, but I can’t promise anything.” John replied When Sherlock stood regarding him as though he was a particularly interesting corpse, John asked, “Was there something else?”

“I have never heard you hum until this week.” The statement was quiet, but Sherlock didn’t move.

John shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t do it much.”

“It’s been the same song every time,” stated Sherlock. John nodded. “Why that song, then?”

John felt his heart begin to pound. “No reason. Just something I overheard on the train…” he trailed off, silently begging Sherlock to let it go.

Of course he didn’t.

“It must be more than that. You’ve hummed a number of verses interspersed with a chorus over the last week. You’re more familiar with it than a few seconds on a train would allow.” He paused, waiting for John to react. When John resolutely pressed his lips together, Sherlock added, “It means something to you.”

John nodded, the small motion taking all his will power to execute. He couldn’t speak. How could he ask that question? Without asking he couldn’t act, but the asking was…difficult. Impossible. His heart was pounding – this was the moment he should be screwing up his courage and telling Sherlock how he felt, but it was slipping by. Sherlock’s gaze was intense, probing, and John could feel his cheeks burning under the scrutiny. After several long moments, Sherlock turned away.

“No matter.” The words were casual, but the undertone bore more hurt than John had expected to hear. Sherlock’s back was rigid as he walked into his bedroom and closed the door. It clicked shut quietly, leaving John alone, the words echoing in his mind.

_No matter…no matter…_

+++

Three days later – three awkward, snow bound days in which neither Sherlock nor John had left the flat – Sherlock finally spoke. It jerked John out of his doze. The fire was stoked, the snow rendering the flat completely silent until Sherlock’s voice broke the spell.

“May I play for you, John?”

John blinked. “Um, of course.”

Sherlock nodded curtly and unfolded himself from the couch. John’s mind moved sluggishly over possible reasons Sherlock would ask to play for him. He rarely did, though John suspected the song selection was skewed towards those pieces he’d praised at some point. Now, though, his question had been quiet, allowing John the option of refusing. Why was that?

As John mused on this, Sherlock picked up his violin, briefly tuning it before glancing at John and beginning to play. It was slow and mournful, and to John’s astonishment, completely familiar. His mouth dropped open as the violin sang under Sherlock’s skilled fingers. As always, John felt the melody resolve through his body, but there was something more. The combination of that song, _that_ song, and Sherlock’s violin, heightened the experience. Automatically, the lyrics began in his head at the right moment and it took a few seconds before he realised Sherlock was singing quietly. John stared at the side of Sherlock’s face, willing him to turn fully and look at John, but Sherlock resolutely faced the fireplace. It wasn’t until the first chorus that Sherlock turned, his eyes meeting John’s as his voice swelled. The words poured from him, directed at John, imploring him, pleading. John was reeling as his own agonised questions were turned back to him. Sherlock sang beautifully, his unexpectedly smooth baritone surrounding the questions, nourishing them before sending them to John. The familiar words that had run through John’s head constantly for the last eight days sent a thrill through him, the new context filling his mind with possibilities and a new certainty.

_How will I know…_

There was one way. One thing he could do, one action that would end the agonising uncertainty once and for all. John clenched his fists, eyes still locked on Sherlock’s. He blew out a breath and released his fists, pressing down on the arms of his chair. When he stood, Sherlock’s eyes followed him. The lyrics ended, and as John drew closer to Sherlock the music trailed off too, violin and bow falling to his sides, clenched tight in his fists. John reached out, taking the instruments from Sherlock, placing them on the couch, eyes still locked together as though holding onto the music still connecting them.

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” said John, his voice cracking. Sherlock nodded, a jerky reactive motion. His face filled John’s vision now, they were so close; the vulnerability in those remarkable eyes was astonishing. John smiled, one hand coming up to press against Sherlock’s chest, right over his heart. The thrumming against his palm was strong but fast, marking Sherlock’s hidden nerves. For the first time in a long time, John could read Sherlock’s expression. The wide eyes, parted lips and furrowed brow spoke of his nerves, matching the staccato beat of his heart. _He really doesn’t know_ , John thought to himself. It was the first time Sherlock had willingly revealed his ignorance about anything. John felt honoured to be given such trust. He raised his hand from Sherlock’s chest to his face, pressing his palm to the warm skin.

“It’s true,” John whispered. “I really love you.” He smiled at the astonishment, the smoothing of the brow as Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.

“Really?”

“Really.” John assured him, the words touching Sherlock’s lips fractionally before John’s lips settled there, moulding as though they had been made to fit. John felt Sherlock shudder, the breath stuttering across this cheek as Sherlock exhaled. John’s mind swam at the sensations – warm air sweeping over his face, long fingers clutching at his upper arms, the smell of Sherlock’s aftershave filling his nose. His heart was pounding in his ears, a counterpoint to Sherlock’s ragged breathing and the tiny whimpering noise he made at their first contact. Hesitantly John shifted, not really moving closer, testing to see how Sherlock would react. The hands on his arms relaxed, but rather than pushing him away, they slid over John’s shoulders, pulling him in as Sherlock’s mouth moved against John’s. Surprised, John inhaled sharply, before wrapping his own arms around Sherlock, returning the kiss. There was no hesitancy in Sherlock’s kiss – he was obviously more experienced than John had expected, his mouth moving with confidence. John groaned, letting himself relax into the moment he thought might never happen. He relished the taste of tea, the excitement of kissing someone for the first time, feeling them move in unexpected ways, the thrill of finding the techniques that made them respond. He made sure to let Sherlock know what made him tingle and spark; it was hardly a chore to allow his groans and clutching fingers free reign. John’s fingers were kneading at Sherlock’s arse; a part of his brain mourned that he couldn’t concentrate more fully on the exact firmness of that delectable rear, given all the other sensory input he was trying to process; hopefully this would not be a one-time event.

Pulling back took a good chunk of self-control, and keeping his distance from the dishevelled Sherlock took the rest.

“What?” Sherlock rasped, his voice sinfully deep.

“I just…” John began, not really knowing how to put it into words. He wanted Sherlock to reciprocate, to say the words he had finally found the courage to articulate himself. It felt needy and weak, two things he did not associate with himself at all. Looking helplessly at Sherlock, John’s eyes searched, accustomed to meeting the shutters of a guarded soul. Despite the intimacy of their position, and even the revelation of Sherlock’s earlier expression, John was still surprised to see the affection, trust and vulnerability in those clear eyes. They were pale as a tropical ocean right now, though Sherlocks’ wide pupils obscured much of the iris. As the moment continued with only their ragged breathing to mark the passage of time, John’s eyes never left Sherlock’s. He drank in the calm open expression, so rare on Sherlock’s face, giving without reservation. It was likely that John’s face was anxious, questioning, but Sherlock remained the same, allowing John the time to find the answers he sought. And slowly, John saw that the very action of allowing John in, of unshuttering his carefully guarded true self was the demonstration of love he needed. John felt his face relax in realisation as he understood – Sherlock’s actions shouted his emotion louder than any words could do.

“Nothing.” John murmured. “I know now.”

“So do I,” replied Sherlock, ducking his head back in to resume their kiss.


End file.
